


Playing the Odds

by draculard



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Cybernetics, Ficlet, Gambling, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Lando's got his eye on the most glorious yaith-skin cloak and if he has to gamble for three months to win it, then by Palpatine's greasy ass, that's what he's gonna do.
Relationships: Lando Calrissian/Lobot
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Playing the Odds

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too

_Cha-ching._

“Lobot,” said Lando, “calculate how many more times I need to win before I can get that yaith-skin cloak we saw at Djiovani’s.”

Lobot cast him a dry sidelong look. “The odds—”

“Not the _odds_ ,” said Lando, lunging across the table to hold a finger to Lobot’s lips. “Just give me the number of hours it’ll take before that cloak is mine.” He could see the other players watching him out of the corner of his eye, so he straightened his sleeves and turned to them with his toothiest smile. “On a tight schedule,” he explained.

“Three months,” Lobot whispered.

Lando’s smile almost dropped. He tightened it instinctively; out of the side of his mouth, he whispered, “What?”

“At this rate,” said Lobot as the dealer spun the rack, “it will take you two thousand, one hundred ninety-seven hours, or approximately three months—”

The other players were consulting their dice. Lando took the opportunity to drop his smile and drag Lobot down beneath the table, where no one could read their lips.

“How do you figure?” he asked.

“By calculating the odds,” said Lobot, blank-faced.

“I told you _not_ to calculate the odds.”

“You told me not to _tell_ you the odds,” said Lobot, “but I cannot calculate the hours it will take you to win without first calculating the odds. Are you pretending not to understand mathematics, Lando? Why are you pretending not to understand mathematics?”

With an exasperated hiss, Lando returned to the upper edge of the table, dragging Lobot with him. He scanned his own dice quickly, then eyed the rack.

Three months, Lobot said. Three months of gambling for a measly yaith-skin cloak! There had to be a better way.

It was a split decision — Lando shoved his dice into the pot and stood as soon as the rack began to spin again, not waiting for the outcome. He had a pair of Rodians stationed nearby who would collect anything he won (and prevent anyone from coming after him if he lost). He tugged on Lobot’s sleeve as he left, and after he’d pushed his way through a few teeth-grindingly drunk knots of gamblers, Lobot caught up with him and matched his pace.

“You have a plan?” asked Lobot, his voice coming out flat.

“Yes,” said Lando. He shot Lobot a quick glance, saw the blankness of his face, and slowed down, guiding Lobot away from the bustle of the cantina and toward the outer hall, where it was dark and smelled of crushed stims and spilled alcohol — but where there weren’t any people around to bother them. “You okay?” he asked.

“I am well,” said Lobot, voice still flat. 

“Implants giving you trouble?” asked Lando.

This time Lobot didn’t answer aloud, which meant yes. He made no protest as Lando pushed him gently backward, until his back was up against the wall. Sliding his hands down, Lando found the sliver of skin on each of Lobot’s wrists where his sleeves had slid up. He rested his hands there, fingers loosely circling Lobot’s wrists, thumbs rubbing circles over the sharp knobs of bone.

“Here’s the plan,” said Lando, his voice low. “We go back to Djiovani’s and we ask for a total list of everyone who’s expressed interest in that yaith-skin cloak. He owes me a favor anyway, so he won’t put up a fight — and if he does, we’ll have our blasters, so no sweat. He used to be a great shot, but ever since lost his left hand in a game of Sabacc — and his right hand to the spice cartels—”

Lobot’s mouth opened. <Calculation complete> he said. <Transmitting now>

“But anyway,” said Lando, raising his voice to be heard over the tide of numbers currently spewing from Lobot’s mouth. “I figure we get the list from him, we find some prat with more credits than sense — you know the type — don’t look at me like that — and we lean on him till he buys the cloak, see? Then it’s all just a matter of learning his game, enticing him to the table, pulling one over on him, and bam: he puts his cloak in the pot, we sweep the hand, and we all go home winners.”

<...93010395010570...> Lobot said.

“Or, well, you and I go home winners,” Lando amended. “I get the cloak, and you … get to see me in the cloak. I don’t suppose the rich prat will be very happy, but then, I’m not here to make friends.”

<...87883450194022110401156...> Lobot said. There was an electronic whir that seemed to come more from his throat than from his headgear. In a desperate attempt to stop that mechanical voice from coming out of his friend's mouth, Lando leaned forward and did the only thing that made sense: he captured Lobot's lips in a kiss.

Soft lips. Warm lips. Lips he rather liked, actually. At first, Lobot remained unresponsive, but gradually, like something had clicked and changed inside him, he leaned into it, his lips parting, his tongue swiping out, hot and wet and more than welcome.

"...to one," he murmured, his breath ghosting over Lando's lips.

Lando blinked at him. Lobot blinked back, his eyes clear again.

"You're alright?" Lando said, not pulling away.

"I am well," said Lobot, a lot more convincingly than when he'd said it earlier. "You taste of alcohol and tabac."

Offended, Lando drew back. "Well, thank you for the life-saving _kiss_ , Lando," he said, feathers ruffled. "Thank you for not letting my cybernetic implants take over my brain and turn me into a _machine_ , Lando. You owe me your life, you know. Shall I take the payment in the form of credits, or do you have something more interesting to put on the table?"

Lobot didn't say thank you, and he only rolled his eyes at the suggestion of payment. Gradually, the rest of the moment caught up with Lando. Not the kiss; the important part.

“Did you just tell me the odds?” he asked, eyebrows rising almost to his hairline. “When I specifically asked you _not_ to?”

“I am not responsible for what the implants say when they take over,” said Lobot. He glanced down at Lando’s hands, his thumbs still caressing Lobot’s wrists in an absent grounding gesture. “And I am quite vulnerable and shaky in the aftermath of a takeover,” said Lobot with no subtlety whatsoever. “So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interrogate me right now—”

“The odds of my three-month win at Twin Ice, or the odds of my yaith-skin cloak plan?” asked Lando, eyes narrowed.

“The odds,” said Lobot delicately, “that you will actually wear the cloak more than once after it’s acquired.”

Lando dropped his hands. 


End file.
